


Remembrance

by Kalypso



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:51:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalypso/pseuds/Kalypso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gambrill's used to forgetting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [b7friday](http://b7friday.livejournal.com/) prompt "Sidekicks".

_"According to the Federation, I'm a political criminal," says the stranger. "You may have heard of me. My name is Blake."_

_Bellfriar smiles. "Yes, but then we're absentminded scientists, you see. In fact, we've forgotten your name already. Haven't we, Gambrill?"_

_"Whose name, sir?"_

 

It's second nature to a Federation citizen, forgetting what you aren't supposed to know. You learn as a child to forget the teacher who disappeared from school, and (as the natural corollary) a significant portion of what she taught you. You forget the time you saw someone shot down by a trooper as a crowd of people milled around the Dome's main square. When you start work, you forget the crimes you see committed against medical ethics, and sometimes science itself.

And these days, because this posting to Fosforon that nobody wanted turned out to be your dream job after the most eminent virologist in the quadrant decided to work here, you forget the occasional indiscreet remark he makes. You really don't want to be forced to forget this boss. Because if Bellfriar goes... well, you might find yourself recovering all kinds of buried memories, and the feelings that went with them. Better to jog along, dropping all those things you shouldn't know into the bin of what you've already forgotten, and hope you last long enough to collect your pension.

This is turning into a rather memorable day, what with missing spaceships and seven-hundred-year-old corpses and a mystery virus hitting the sick bay and gnotobiotics. Easy enough to let slip a visitor who couldn't possibly have been here in the first place.

No time to think of that now, anyway, with some men dropping dead as they try to process the data on the virus, and the rest panicking and running. Lucky the doctor has... somebody... to offer help with the analysis. But the panic, that has to be contained. Try to stop them.

"Tell the guards on the main entrance, nobody leaves! They can shoot if necessary."

He's right, of course, the silver-haired man giving orders, sometimes shooting is necessary for the greater good... Tell the guards! But you can remember, still remember, the crowd milling round the square to the sound of gunfire, the man jerking and falling and trampled underfoot. And you can see, very clearly, for the first time in years, the face of your favourite teacher as you fall yourself.


End file.
